Bits and Pieces
by miss.ouiser
Summary: A series of one-shots. Featuring varying characters, styles and what-not. Some angsty, some fluffy, some (hopefully) comic. Mostly canon-compliant, but no promises. Hope you enjoy them. Let's give them a "T" rating. I'll warn you if that changes.
1. Questions and Answers

_Questions and Answers_

The kiss was mingled with passion and relief and yearning and desperation. It was a reckless thing to do, in the open, with Mei Lin and Frank just barely out of sight, and neighbors who made it their business to police each other. Jean was not sorry for the kiss, only that it would not happen again. The broke apart and she stepped away.

"Jean – there's something I need to ask you."

Lucien smiled, but there was something in his eyes, some residual pain. The events of the past few weeks had left him with new scars. She did not want to add to them, he did not deserve that, but…

"Not now, Lucien, please. I just…"

"Yes. Now. I need to know…" Jean steeled herself. How could she feel such hope and such fear at the same time? How could the words she had spent untold hours wishing to hear now fill her with dread?

He was waiting, searching her face for some sign to continue, reading the conflict in her silence. "Lucien, please, not yet. I can't give you the answer that you want." She hesitated, seeking to soften the blow as well she could. "The answer we both want."

"You haven't heard the question." He smiled a little more at her confusion. What other question was there?

"Jean… I know what I need to do, but I don't know how long it's going to take. It will most certainly be months, perhaps even a year or longer, for Mei Lin and me to be granted a divorce. There will be even more talk than there was before, and it will likely be more vicious. I won't pretend to think that it is going to be otherwise. And I know what I'm asking is unfair to you, and for that, and a thousand other things, I am so sorry. But I need to know…Jean…I need to ask you…" Lucien hesitated, afraid to continue, afraid to stay silent.

"Will you wait for me?"


	2. Apparition

Xxxxx

My husband does not want me. And I do not want him. I never wanted any of this.

When Lucien opened the door and saw me standing there, he was speechless, horrified. It was nothing like a movie, where the separated lovers embrace. Lucien, who is always placing his hands on a person's arm or shoulder, would not even touch me. I was more than a ghost: I was a phantom.

This is all wrong. Everything is all wrong. I am free of the camps, but I am still a prisoner. Will I ever stop being a prisoner?

I never expected to see Lucien again. And in truth, when Derek told me he was alive I was glad, but nothing more. Too much time had passed, and too much had happened. Our time together was a pleasant memory, and that is what I want it to remain. But Derek has other ideas. He's promised me my freedom in exchange for Lucien. If I fail "to deliver" my husband, he will make sure I find myself back in the work camp. What he wants Lucien for I neither know nor care; I just want to be free. So I will do what he wants. Or try to. A prisoner does what she is told.

But Lucien does not want me back. I know it is not just the shock of seeing me again. Lucien is kind but transparent; I can see that my resurrection is unexpected and unwelcome. He loves the memory, not the manifestation. I should be hurt or insulted, but I am mostly angry. Not because my husband does not want me, but because his refusal to take me back means I cannot be free of Derek. I am tired of being controlled by others.

I do not want to be in this house, or in his bed. I do not want to be Mrs Blake. Not anymore.

But I will try again tomorrow. I must. I must fight for me.


	3. Lost in Translation

_A/N This is what you get when I binge-watch **TDBM** and **Firefly** while ironing. Apologies all around._

The morgue was normally a quiet, peaceful place, a secular sanctuary. The vast majority of people found it gruesome and creepy and gave it a wide berth, entering only when absolutely necessary. And the fact that a woman was in charge made it seem even more unnatural. All of which suited Dr Alice Harvey just fine. She liked dead people: they didn't squirm, talk back or ask stupid questions. They would just lie there, allowing her to do her job. Alice loved her job, and she was damn good at it.

She'd gotten used to Dr Lucien Blake, Ballarat police surgeon, although he still tended to take over whenever they worked together. Nevertheless, he was intelligent and respectful and thoroughly competent, and treated her as an equal, even when he was being a bit of a pompous ass. In truth, Alice quite liked him, and considered him a friend, which was a change from the usual adversarial relationships she had with her other male colleagues. And as acquiescent as her patients were, one-sided conversations could be a bit wearisome. Blake was a nice diversion. She would have been pleasantly surprised to find that he thought the same of her.

So when the new Chief Superintendent William Munro began haunting the morgue, more threatening than any disturbed spirit, Alice was immediately on her guard. Munro was never there for any _particular_ reason other than to badger her for autopsy results or lab reports or, in his words, "to observe the medical side of things". But he had her in his sights, Alice knew, and it could not be good. She did her best to remain cool and aloof - her usual demeanor - but he exuded a miasma of maliciousness that unnerved her.

On this particular morning Alice was preparing to perform an autopsy on an elderly man found dead in his home. It should have been a rather routine procedure, but Munro was treating it as a suspicious death. He was suspicious of everything, it seemed. Alice was relieved when Blake waltzed into the room. He quickly surveyed the scene, missing nothing. Munro became even more suspicious, narrowing his eyes even further.

"Ah, Dr Harvey. _Zăoshang hăo._ " Blake was ignoring the Chief Superintendent as long as possible. Alice wondered if he was deliberately being obnoxious. Stupid question, of course he was. It came as naturally as breathing to the man. "And to you, William." Alice knew he hated being called William, which is why Blake did it. Despite the tension in the room, she felt her lips twinge in an effort to keep from smiling.

"As I am not Chinese, Doctor, and neither is Miss Harvey, I see no reason to for you to use it here," spat Munro, his blatant disrespect for Alice present is his reference to her. Alice gripped the scalpel a little tighter, wondering if she could throw it with enough force and accuracy to bury it in his skull. Probably not; his skull was too thick.

Lucien smiled. "Apologies, William. I've just received a letter from my daughter. You know, the one who lives in Shanghai. Naturally, she doesn't speak English, and I find I miss the beauty of the Mandarin language. A little cultural expansion can do us all good." He smiled, seemingly oblivious to the daggers Munro was throwing his way. "It means _'good morning'_ ".

"I'm not interested in language lessons, Doctor Blake. I want to know why this man died."

"Of course, William. I hope you don't mind if I continue; I find it clears the mind. _Qing Wah Cao De Liu Mang._ "

Blake turned back to Alice, whose perfectly arched eyebrows had disappeared into her hairline. She tried to shoot him a look of "What the hell are you doing?" Which Lucien inexplicably translated into, "Bravo. Please continue."

"Now, as to why this man died, I suspect the fact that he was sixty-nine years old, diabetic, had been discharged from hospital following the surgical amputation of three toes on his left foot the week prior, refused to stop drinking and was, in fact, found in his bed surrounded by several empty whiskey bottles, can tell us everything we need to know without an autopsy. "

Alice could hear Munro's teeth grinding together. Lucien looked positively beatific.

"The bedroom window was broken – "

" – because the district nurse broke it when Mr Jenkins did not come to the door. It was the only way she could get into the house. _Chwen_."

 _Please, God, send an earthquake right now._ "Dr Blake, shall we continue?" Alice tried to keep the pleading note out of her voice.

"Oh, I don't think so, Alice. _Go Hwong Tong._ Cause of death is quite apparent: diabetic coma brought on by hypoglycemia induced by excessive alcohol intake. I believe his medical records can be found with the district nurse, his surgeon Dr Nicholson, and his personal physician Dr King. Had the investigating officer bothered to check the notes, he would have immediately seen that this was not a case for the coroner, but the undertaker." He shot a look at Munro. Blake's smile was still in place, but it had taken on a slightly sinister quality of its own. He would not back down from Munro, not here.

The Chief Superintendent had the sense to retreat. "Then I will postpone the autopsy until I've had a chance to review the records myself, Doctor. In the meantime, I expect you to furnish me with a complete report of your opinions." Blake made to open his mouth. "Your _medical_ opinions," Munro clarified. Lucien shut his mouth.

"Very good, William. I shall." Lucien was grinning. " _Chui Se._ " The greeting was lost on the Chief Superintendent as he marched out of the morgue. Lucien turned back to Alice, who had remained rooted to the spot.

"What?" He tried and failed to look innocent.

" _Frog-humping son of a bitch?_ Are you insane?" Alice would have laughed at the shocked look on Blake's face if she wasn't so horrified. "You know he's investigating you, and you just hand him ammunition, _Chwen_."

"How did you - ?" Lucien was not entirely unaccustomed to being called a _dumbass_ , just not in Mandarin by his Australian female morgue buddy.

"Oh, for God's sake, Lucien. Everyone learns the 'bad words' first." Now Alice really did smile. It wasn't often she got the drop on someone. "Summer job, chemist from Beijing." She added by way of explanation.

"Why Alice Harvey, you are a woman of hidden talents." Lucien grinned.

"Yes, well, you better hope I don't tell your housekeeper. I understand Jean runs a proper home," Alice smirked, feeling the tension ease from her body.

Lucien looked smug. "It was Jean's idea."

"Jean? She told you to swear at Munro in Chinese?"

"Well, not quite. She suggested I find a different way to communicate with him, before I got sacked."

Alice shook her head in amused exasperation. Only Blake would interpret advice in that manner. Lucien rubbed his just-washed hands together. "Now, I must go and type up that report for the Chief Superintendent. Don't worry, Dr Harvey," Lucien cut off her protest, "it will all be in perfectly proper English." He left the morgue whistling.

"See that it is, _Băo Bèi,_ " she muttered to the swinging door. Serenity had returned to her domain.

Xxxxx

Note: All the Mandarin I have ever learned (?), I got from watching _Firefly_. Absolutely no disrespect was intended as I tried to insert phrases into this fic, gleaned from several _Firefly_ fan sites.

Frog-Humping Son of a Bitch - _Qing Wah Cao De Liu Mang_

Dumbass - C _hwen_

Enough of this nonsense - _Go Hwong Tong_

Go to hell - _Chui Se_

Sweetheart - _Băo Bèi_


	4. No Small Degree

_A/N Thank you so much for all the lovely comments and reviews!_

"She was not a ready lover, but where she loved she loved passionately, and with no small degree of jealousy."― Elizabeth Gaskell, North and South

xxxxxxxxx

" _This is where you usually warn me to stay away from him, isn't it? Is that what you're about to do?"_

" _Sorry to disappoint you. We're very lucky he's come back at all, really. He's a very important member of this community, and anything that encourages him to stay here is very welcome. He enjoys your visits. His mood improves, and that's no bad thing."_

" _And, what about yourself, Jean?"_

" _Good afternoon, Mrs McDonald."_

Are you really just going to just hand him to me, Jean, without the warnings, without hesitation, without a battle? All because I _improve his mood_? It pained you to tell me that, I know it did, but you said it anyway. I could barely make out the insincerity behind your smile, which did not quite reach your eyes, by the way. Lucien wears his heart on his sleeve, but your eyes tell me everything.

We both want him, and we both know that. But you want his heart, his soul. You want to make a home for him, a place he can return every evening to find you waiting for him with a hot meal and clean clothes. You want to make a sanctuary for him, with yourself at the center. You can have all those things, because that is not what I want.

I see the way he looks at me. The desire, the lust, all mixed together with admiration and cautious interest. I'm making progress, but I admit that it's taking longer than I would have wished. You see it too. And yet you practically gave me your blessing. Are you so desperate for him to stay that you'll step aside, knowing what I want?

You're making this too easy. But I'm not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. In my business, you exploit every opportunity.

But will you still be so sanguine, I wonder, when you're scrubbing my lipstick off his collar, or washing my perfume from his sheets.

Oh, Jean, do you know that you love him?


	5. Personal Shopper

**A/N: Another story I posted to Tumblr. Just trying to keep everything in one place.**

 _Ballarat Hospital morgue. One week before Christmas._

 _Alice_ : Caucasian male, 20 - 25 years old, severe skull compression and laceration directly below the parietal lobe.

 _Blake_ : Yes, and there appear to be glass fragments in the wound. Hand me a pair of forceps please, Alice.

 _Alice, smacking forceps into palm with more force than necessary_ : They were right there next to you. Do you need a tray?

 _Blake_ : Yes, please.

 _Alice_ : Looks like he was in a fight - there's some cartilage damage to his left ear as well. Have you picked out a Christmas gift for Jean?

 _Blake, missing the tray and dropping glass shards into the corpse's mouth_ : What? Right. Well, I've, um…Yes…that is, well, no.

 _Alice, giving him the look_ : Leaving it to the last minute? You missed a piece over the right canine.

 _Blake_ : And I'm not sure it's anyone's business what I give to my housekeeper for Christmas.

 _Alice, and another look_ : "Housekeeper"?

 _Blake_ : Can we get on with it? _(waves forceps over the corpse)_ Preferably without any more superfluous personal questions?

 _Alice_ : Fine. Just make sure it's not an appliance or an apron or something equally mundane.

 _Blake says nothing, but his ears go red._

 _Alice_ : Oh, good God, you didn't.

 _Blake:_ She said she needed a new iron.

 _Alice_ : You are the stupidest smart person I've ever met.

 _Blake_ : What's wrong with getting her what she wants?

 _Alice:_ No woman _wants_ a new iron for a gift.

 _Blake:_ It's practical…

 _Alice:_ Yes, you're right. A perfectly appropriate gift for your _housekeeper._ Shall we open him up?

 _Blake, giving up any pretense of autopsy-ing_ : Fine, what do you suggest?

 _Alice_ : Why ask me? I'm just your morgue mate.

 _Blake growls_.

 _Alice:_ Jean likes the theatre, doesn't she?

 _Blake_ : There's nothing here in Ballarat…

 _Alice, trying and failing not to roll her eyes:_ There are some wonderful productions in Melbourne or Sydney. I understand _The Music Man_ is playing at the Tivoli now.

 _Blake_ : How would she get there?

 _Alice:_ Oh, do keep up.

 _Blake, speaking aloud to himself_ : I suppose I could give her a holiday for, well, the holidays. A weekend in Sydney, theatre tickets…

 _Alice_ : I'm away the third week in January, so I can't cover for you.

 _Blake, looking confused_ : Why would I need you to cov…oh. Yes. Right. Good.

 _Alice, muttering_ : Bravo, you got there at last.

 _Blake_ : Alice, would you mind…

 _Alice:_ …finishing for you? No, go ahead.

 _Blake, grinning:_ Thank you. _(heads for the door_ ) Oh, and Alice?…Merry Christmas!

 _Alice, smirking:_ Get out of my morgue.

 _Blake leaves, whistling "Twelve Days of Christmas_ ".

 _Alice yells after him_ : And I like white wine and Belgian chocolate!


	6. Fire Down Below

**A/N** Smut lite. Inspired by talk of kettles and stills of CMcL from _The Wrong Girl._

 _xxxxxxx_

Fire Down Below

Lucien froze for a fraction of a second, toothbrush in mid-stroke, Jean's scream just audible over the sound of water running in the sink. Heedless of his half-dressed state, he bolted down the stairs and into the kitchen, where the ancient electric kettle was engulfed in flames. Without hesitation, Lucien grabbed the first thing he could, beating out the fire with his bath towel, still damp from his recent shower. Within moments the fire was extinguished, and Lucien stood back, feeling rather pleased with himself. He had saved his lady fair and his home, and he hadn't even had breakfast.

He turned to Jean. "Well, I think that should take care of things."

Jean's eyes snapped back up to his face. "Bloody hell! I should think so."


	7. Every Grief I Meet

There's grief of want, and grief of cold,—

A sort they call "despair";

There 's banishment from native eyes,

In sight of native air.

-Emily Dickinson

The last of the guests had finally left, murmuring their condolences and offers of help as they walked through the door into the early winter afternoon. Dr. Thomas Blake responded as custom dictated, thanking each one for coming to the funeral and, yes, he would be sure to let them know if he needed anything. They gave small, polite smiles, knowing that the request would never be made, and trying to ignore the twinge of guilt at the feeling of relief. They had done their duty; they were absolved, free to continue with their lives.

Thomas made his way into his surgery, lighting the lamp on his desk. The house had electric lights in all the rooms, but he still preferred the light of the oil lamp. Its soft glow was modest and refined, unlike the harsh illumination of its modern cousin. He sat at the desk and tried to think of what to do next. He was not a man who lived life in the spur of the moment. He made plans, carried them to completion, and then filed them away before moving on to the next task. His wife had died, he had buried her, and now he must move on to…what? What was he to do next? How could he move forward when everything that mattered was behind him and moving further and further away? Genevieve was dead.

He could feel the stinging behind his eyes and the tightening of his chest begin again. This would not do. Thomas looked around his desk for something to distract him – patient notes, a medical journal, some unopened mail – and spied the envelope from Melbourne. Xavier College. _Sursum Corda_ – lift up your hearts. How very hopeful. He slit open the envelope, removed the thick sheaf of papers, and began to fill out the forms, never bothering to read past the first paragraph offering the warm introduction and gratitude for considering Xavier as a choice for his son. As if he had a choice.

Genevieve would have fought him. The thought of Lucien being sent out of her sight was enough to trigger the tears and hysterics and tantrums that Thomas found incomprehensible. The boy was ten years old now; too old to be coddled and cosseted like a favoured pet. He had become spoiled and soft, and Thomas' attempts to involve him with activities like footy or Scouts had only led to dramatic rows. Thomas loved his son, but he could not be the kind of parent that his wife had been. And now the very sight of his boy tore his heart to shreds, and he could not bear it.

Nor could he bear for Lucien to hear the gossip that was already beginning to swirl around Ballarat. How his beloved mother died at a party after his father had left her there, claiming fatigue from a long day caring for the sick. How she was drinking and dancing and flirting, basking in the attention that fueled her existence. Genevieve: the White Wave, of the race of women, defender of Paris. Ballarat was too small for her, so she created her own world of color and light and life and set it spinning at a dizzying pace. Thomas heard the gossip, the comments made by casual friends and patients, saw the way they looked at him, gauging his response. They had an understanding, he and Genevieve. He never really doubted her fidelity. But then Doug Ashby would not meet his eyes…

His thoughts were providentially interrupted by the sound of teacups rattling on the tray, and he looked up to see Agnes Clasby standing in the doorway. As if his day was not already unbearable. He hated the very sight of the woman, and was aware that the feeling was mutual. Now, however, Agnes seemed to be making a peace offering, or at least a temporary cessation of hostilities. Thomas sighed and gave a nod, which Agnes understood as permission to enter. She set about putting the tray on the corner of the desk, filling the cups and fussing about the few tired-looking biscuits on the plate. Thomas watched her carefully, aware that she was stalling for time. He felt a small smile creep upon his lips: an anxious Agnes was a novelty. Whatever she had to say to him was bound to spark an argument, and Thomas found himself looking forward to the diversion. He did not have long to wait.

"Nell and I have been talking. We want Lucien to come and stay with us for a while. We can look after him while you…" Agnes waived her hand over the papers on the desk, "…deal with all this. I don't suppose you've considered taking some time off?"

"Whatever for?"

"You've just lost your wife. People don't expect you to…"

"You're wrong. People expect a great deal. People assume a great deal." Thomas looked pointedly across the desk, "And people will expect me to carry on as before. I can't just walk away from my job. I am not some clerk to be easily replaced."

Agnes drew a deep breath. "Very well, all the more reason for Lucien to come with us while you 'carry on'. At least until you sort things out and make arrangements for his care. He should not be left on his own." Agnes was aware that the Blake's housekeeper was not keen on children, and was unlikely to stay now that Genevieve was gone.

"Arrangements have already been made." He would not meet Agnes' eyes. "The boy is going to school. He starts next week at Xavier College." Thomas kept writing, refusing to look up. He could feel her stare burning a hole in the top of his head.

"You heartless bastard."

Agnes and Thomas both started. Nell Clasby stood in the doorway, her body rigid with rage. Thomas felt himself deflate a little; while he relished sparring with Agnes, his feelings toward her sister were quite different. "Nell, please let me explain…" He got no further.

"There is nothing to explain. That poor boy has just lost his mother, and now he's to lose his father as well? Thomas, how could you even think to send him away?" Nell was on the verge of tears. "Let him come to Agnes and me, at least for a little while. Then, maybe, we can think about sending him to school next term."

"There is no 'we' here. Lucien is my responsibility, and I will deal with it as I see fit."

Agnes glared at Thomas. "Genevieve did not want her son sent away to school!"

Thomas rounded on her. "How do you know what my wife wanted? How do you know what we discussed? Did she tell you all this while painting your portrait? Is that what kept the two of you locked up in the studio all that time?" He felt a savage satisfaction as the color drained from Agnes' face.

A child's cry from somewhere upstairs stopped them. Nell made to leave, but Agnes stood up. "I'll go." She hastily strode from the room. Thomas and Nell faced one another.

Nell pleaded. "Thomas, please. I'm not sure you've thought this through."

"The matter is closed."

"Lucien…"

"…is not your son."

"No, he is not." Nell looked over at the man she had known since childhood. "But we both know he should have been."

Thomas could only watch as the door slammed behind her.


End file.
